


Those Who Seek the Dead

by Eponin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Family Secrets, M/F, Multi, Wincest - Freeform, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 15:14:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eponin/pseuds/Eponin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam looks up, Jess is standing there dressed in jeans and that ridiculous Smurf shirt she'd always insisted on sleeping in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Who Seek the Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Written for destina's challenge over at the livejournal family_secret community. Prompt #1.

They're in Shelter Cove, California when the end of October rolls around. Sam doesn't even realize the date, the time of year, until he catches sight of the jack o' lanterns lit up on the resident's porches, plastic cauldrons and spiders and black cats hanging in windows.

He hates that his memories have faded, even though he knows it's the natural order of things. The mind will protect itself, blunt the pain, even when it's unwanted.

Sam would rather have the pain.  


\+ + +

  
_Dad always made a special point of seeking out jobs around Halloween, whether to distract himself from the upcoming anniversary of Mom's death or because wannabe witches dabbling in things they shouldn't were out in force over the holiday. Sam never knew which it was and John never volunteered the answer._  


\+ + +

  
Sam steals away while Dean is off hustling pool and distracted. He makes for the open air and the rhythmic beat of the waves on the surf; the night air — windless and cool around him; the black sands beneath his bare feet still warm from the autumn sun. The beach is darkness around him, blending with the deeps of the ocean, butting up against the shore, and Sam loves that this place is different from other beaches ; a one of a kind line stretching out along the horizon.

Jess loved the water.  


\+ + +

  
_Sam feels shaky, unsure, but he could no more have said no to Jess when she suggested they move in together than he can forget the look on Dean's face that afternoon he and Dad had their throw-down over Sam leaving for Stanford. But here he is and they've unpacked all of Jess's stuff and already it feels more like home than anyplace he's ever been. _

He feels guilty for the thought, but he hasn't seen Dean in over a year, Dad still hasn't spoken to him, and it strikes him now that he can have this – something that belongs to just him – that maybe he can unpack here, too.

"Hey Sam? Is this yours?"

Sam turns to see Jess holding up the little driftwood box he'd stolen that time Dad had investigated a haunting at a flea market, back when he was twelve.

It was the only thing he'd managed to keep for himself his entire life.

"Yeah," he says. "It's mine."  


\+ + +

  
He lays out the single black candle, lights it with a wooden match tipped with red, and spreads the salt in a circle wide enough to seat four, though he's the only one here.

For now.

Salt is supposed to keep out evil, supposed to purify, but Sam has never seen Mom or Jess as evil and has never been able to bear the thought that it might keep them out. The light from the candle is supposed to guide their way home; setting out food welcomes them to the table.

The dive they were laying their heads in this week didn't even have a hotplate, much less a kitchen, so Sam had to content himself with laying out a bar of Jess's favorite chocolate. He'd lifted it from the last convenience store they'd stopped at.

He leaves the scorched locket inside the box, silver chain tarnished and dull. Those prayers were answered years ago in a gray house in Lawrence, the dreams of meeting her taken away by flame and words of apology.

Three years later and he still has no idea what she meant by them.  


\+ + +

  
_They spent most of the year Sam was nine in Spokane. Dad left them alone over Halloween in the apartment he'd rented for the week with a cupboard full of Spaghetti-o's, a fistful of cash, and a warning not to go out trick or treating. Dean refused to let Sam go, even when flung his dinner on the floor and left Dean to clean up the mess._

Dad came home bruised and bloody, and Sam set himself to researching the holiday; claimed school book reports and tests to study for as his excuse for needing to go to the library four times in one week.  


\+ + +

  
When Sam looks up, Jess is standing there dressed in jeans and that ridiculous Smurf shirt she'd always insisted on sleeping in.

"Sam." Her voice has new layers to it, dips and valleys that echo the waves rolling up on the beach.

"Jess. I…" He wants to apologize. Apologize for not telling her who he was, about those things he'd left behind, afraid he could never outrun, but she presses two fingers against his lips and he falls silent.

Her hand is warm, real, and tears prick the corner of his eyes. He blinks furiously, not willing to close his eyes to wipe away the tears for fear she'll vanish before he can speak. He cups her hand in both of his.

She glances around the circle, at the bits and pieces of ritual he's gathered over the years. "No more, Sam."

"Jess," he starts to say but she just rolls her eyes and kisses him long and deep.

Sam blinks up at her, dazed, when she lifts her head.

"That always was the only way to get you to shut up."

"Sammy!"

Sam jerks his head around. Dean is running along the sand and even at this distance he can see the furious expression on his face.

Jess looks over too, and giggles. "Maybe I should share that technique with your brother?"

"Jess!"  


\+ + +

  
_The moon peeps over the treetops, a Cheshire cat grin whose light flirts with the open living room window. It makes shadows dance in the dips and whirls etched into the box held in his hands. His fingers toy with the lock and key. Sam feels them close, the newly dead on the other side of the veil, a pressure that skitters along his nerve endings, voices not-quite heard in the spaces behind his eyes._

Every year they grow stronger, he feels them more. These days he can almost make out words, but still they pass him by unseen.

They are not here for him.

"You ready?" Jess wanders in from the bedroom, skirt and petticoats rustling.

Sam sets the box back on the table and turns to her. "Jess…"

"I know, I know. You hate Halloween."

He doesn't really, he just hates spending it with people, but he thinks that maybe this year he doesn't mind. The whole conversation is tradition by now, though, and he grins at Jess.

"I am not dressing up."

She shakes her head at him and pulls him out of the room. "You'll have to be my knight in tattered denim, then."  


\+ + +

  
She laughs long and clear. "Goodbye, Sam." She stands, leans over and kisses him on the forehead.

That is, of course, when Dean slams into them both, knocking Sam over onto the sand. By the time Sam blinks the grit out of his eyes, Jess is gone and the candles have gone out. Dean's knee has settled into the small of his back, pressing him down. Sam turns his face to the side, spitting out sand.

Screw this, he thinks, and reaches down to gather a fistful of the coarse grains. He flings the handful over his shoulder and Dean shouts "You bitch!" in surprise and falls backwards.

Freed, Sam scrambles up onto his knees and spins to face his brother. Dean is shaking the dirt free from his hair and blinking furiously.

Sam growls at the sight, an actual growl deep in his throat, because, damn it, he wasn't done talking with Jess, and he knows, deep in his bones, that the chance to say all those things he'd kept buried deep since flame and ash took her from him is done and gone now.

There will be no more chances like this.

He plants one foot and lunges forward, bowling Dean over onto his back, pummeling him with his fists until Dean gathers himself and fights back. They roll over and over each other, elbows and knees fighting for purchase on slick skin. Dean manages to elbow Sam in the eye while pulling on his hair and Sam knees Dean in the crotch when his foot slips out from underneath him while trying to stand.

They collapse, finally, at the edge of the water, lying side by side until the tide washes in, cold and relentless, soaking Dean's entire left side. They scramble back onto dryer sand, Dean shaking droplets from his hair, wringing water from his flannel shirt, until they both sag back down to lay side by side, breath fogging in the cooling air.  


\+ + +

  
_Instead of horror, Sam found something altogether different, and while he knew his father believed what he'd taught them; that's when he realized John didn't know everything. _

He read about the veil between the worlds, ferreted out the ritual behind the myths, looking for ways to protect himself – protect Dean – when their father left them to go off hunting monsters.

He found not peace, but the possibility of it.  


\+ + +

  
"It was just goodbye, Dean." Sam's voice is hushed, drowned out by the waves, but he knows his brother hears him.

Dean rolls onto his side, peers at Sam. "Hmph," he grunts, but even as the sound emerges he turns, settling his head on Sam's chest. He hooks an arm around Sam's waist, slides fingers underneath his shirt to scratch at Sam's belly.

Sam settles back on the sand, one arm cradling his head, and closes his eyes against the press of shades passing in the night. Dean's arm is a warm and familiar weight, anchoring him to the here and now, drowning out the voices, until he hears nothing but the waves.

He blinks up at the velvety black and is content.  


\+ + +

  
**Prompt:**

I might lift the eaves again  
and startle a small room still lit from within  
and finger the traces I left there.  
The considerations of days  
lurk behind porous walls.  
They cling there like stains.  
Carpets soaked in the seepage of dreams,  
flakes of skin  
piled on surfaces as thick as dust.  
There's a head-shape in the pillow  
like a big fingerprint.

Memories flutter up like insects -  
small shrieks, minor crimes inside  
an inked-up window-pane  
with clotted stars,  
and now, outside the shut box,  
this black beach with an ocean on it  
breathing in waves,  
tiered like plate glass,  
and the whole world at night-time  
a wide sea full of starfish waiting to be caught.  
(Pandora's Box by Caitrona O'Reilly)


End file.
